


Something Nice

by rallamajoop



Series: Lilac and Wormwood [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: A Shard of Ice, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29579817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: “Can I help you?” called a pleasant voice. The far door opened to admit a slim figure of a man wearing a stained apron, dark-eyed, the hair at his temples streaked with grey. At the sight of Geralt, he quickly brightened. “Ah! You must be the witcher – here about the zeugl contract, I suppose?”(Or: the one which is basicallyA Shard of Ice, only with Regis as the other man in Yennefer's life instead of Istredd, and where things reach amuchhappier conclusion for all involved.)
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Yennefer z Vengerbergu
Series: Lilac and Wormwood [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197827
Comments: 24
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I first started toying with the idea of Regis having history with Yennefer from long before he first encountered Geralt, I was thinking of it as something you could maybe squeeze into the cracks of canon without changing anything very substantial. But then I was hit with _this_ particular little AU possibility, and I could not resist.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the novels, _A Shard of Ice_ is one of the early Witcher short stories, and one of my personal favourites (for all that it paints a fairly bleak picture of Geralt and Yennefer's early relationship). You don't need to have read the original to follow this, of course, though you'll presumably catch a couple of extra references if you have. I _am_ guilty of abandoning most every aspect that made the original a twisted retelling of _The Snow Queen_ , which may be rather missing the point – but I doubt anyone reading is really going to hold that against me.

The address Yennefer mentioned turned out to be a homely building of modest size, a couple of rows behind the main commercial street of the district. It certainly smelled like a herbalist's when Geralt pushed his way inside, the air thick with the scent of wormwood, coriander, sage, and a thousand other spices beside—but as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he began to wonder.

The room Geralt found himself in was cosy in a lived-in sort of way, with strings of herbs hung from racks suspended beneath the ceiling, and a desk and a table laden with glassware, retorts and other such chemical paraphernalia—over-laden, if anything, as what little working space remained available looked like it had been cleared by relocating some of the desk's contents onto the floor. The bookcases lining the far wall were only half-filled with books; the remaining space reserved for an assortment of jars and bottles, more bundles of herbs, and still more miscellaneous alchemical equipment. It was plain that an alchemist lived here, but where Geralt had been led to expect a shop, he seemed instead to have intruded into someone's home. 

"Can I help you?" called a pleasant voice. The far door opened to admit a slim figure of a man wearing a stained apron, dark-eyed, the hair at his temples streaked with grey. At the sight of Geralt, he quickly brightened. "Ah! You must be the witcher—here about the zeugl contract, I suppose?" 

Geralt frowned. "You'd be Regis? Didn't realise you were expecting me." The arrival of a witcher wasn't usually cause for much interest in settlements of more than a few dozen people; gossip must spread faster around Dillingen than he'd imagined. 

"Emiel Regis, at your service," said the alchemist. "And I couldn't admit to any particular expectation, but it pays to be informed on civic matters. People may say what they will of witchers, but I've always found them to be excellent customers. What can I do for you? Geralt, wasn't it?" 

Geralt hesitated. Regis had already skipped over so many pages of the accepted script for this encounter that a number of things he'd been about to say, such as "I'm Geralt of Rivia," or, "The door was open, I hope I'm not intruding," had rapidly become redundant, leaving him a bit at a loss. Presumably Yennefer had mentioned his name, though if she'd made time to visit the same alchemist she'd recommended to Geralt in the short time they'd been in Dillingen, it was news to him. It was hard to imagine Yen would have mentioned the zeugl though, so Regis couldn't be exaggerating his interest in 'civic matters'. The contract itself had probably been around for weeks, if not longer, so Regis might well have heard of it—though Geralt had only spoken about his intentions in that regard to the mayor, who seemed unlikely to have seen this as vital news to share around the community. Then again, given there was now a witcher in town, it's not implausible that Regis had just _assumed_... 

What Geralt eventually said was, "I don't know for sure the thing's a zeugl." 

Regis nodded. "True, I suppose our monster could well be some manner of myriapodan, perhaps even a larval aeschnae, but given what we know, I think a zeugl more likely, don't you?" The alchemist looked at Geralt expectantly, then understanding seemed to dawn. "Ah, I see I may be getting ahead of you a little. Forgive me, it's a terrible habit of mine." Most people would have found it difficult to smile in a manner simultaneously quite apologetic and just a trifle smug, but Regis had clearly mastered the skill. 

In spite of himself, Geralt found himself smiling back. "Are you always this excited by your customers, or are witchers special?" 

Regis waved a hand. "The latter—being also a surgeon by trade, far too many of my most arguably-significant customers do not arrive in any sort of state for conversation. Conversely, one doesn't meet nearly enough witchers for their needs to become mundane." 

That was the second time he'd mentioned other witchers. Geralt supposed he'd bite. "How many other witchers is that?" 

"You would be, hm, the third. One fellow from the school of the gryphon, if I recall—a secretive sort, he insisted upon providing only partial recipes for the potions he wanted, meaning to add the final ingredients himself—though he paid very well for the trouble. And another of your own," this was said with a look at Geralt's medallion, "the school of the wolf. He, in fact, had only a partial recipe to work from and needed my help in its completion—something to slow the heart rate, most intriguing work. Neither were recent customers, though each memorable in their own way." 

Interesting. "Either of them come back?" 

"I suppose your meaning is, _did they come back alive_ , having consumed my potions?" said Regis, with a shrewd look. "I take no offense—the task of brewing such unusual preparations at potencies deadly to ordinary folk is not one to be taken lightly. But your colleague from the gryphons _did_ return, and evidently satisfied, for he wanted more. I haven't seen him since, but then, that was before I moved here to Dillingen. As for the other witcher, no, I can't say I saw him again—though as his needs were more conducive to testing under controlled conditions, I have more than reasonable confidence in the outcome. I did wonder what might have become of him... but I assume you haven't come here entirely to quiz me on my background and credentials." 

"No," said Geralt, who was beginning to see that inviting Regis to embark upon a tangent might be—if certainly _interesting_ —not to be done lightly. "I need an antidote prepared." 

"To the toxins of a zeugl? Very wise, you wouldn't want to enter combat without one on hand. Though I suppose it best to prepare something rather more broad in application—as you say, it may not be safe to assume a zeugl is our monster, and anything so at home in a cesspool may be assumed to be rather noxious in character." 

"Exactly." It was a strange experience, conversing with Regis—the man seemed to hang upon your every word, while at once giving the impression of being capable of carrying on the conversation without your input. "There's a potion I'd usually carry, we call it golden oriole—effective in some measure against every poison I've come across." 

Regis nodded. "Quite some agent. I believe I've heard of it, though I'd dread to see its effects on a man of weaker constitution. It might save his life, but he might live to regret it." 

"Good thing it only has to work on me then. I can supply you with some of the principal ingredient," Geralt retrieved the bundle from his bag with care. Regis waved him to the desk and watched patiently as Geralt unrolled it to reveal the contents. 

"Genuine reachcluster, if I'm not mistaken," the alchemist exclaimed. "I haven't seen any of this in an age! Is it still grown at the temple in Ellander?" 

Geralt was genuinely impressed. The temple garden may well have been legendary among herbalists, but to be able to guess that at a stroke—the witcher could only smile in disbelief. Of course, Yennefer _could_ have told him exactly what to expect on Geralt's arrival—though if this _was_ all some elaborate joke of theirs, they'd overplayed their hands absurdly. No, it seemed more likely that Regis was simply as well-informed as he appeared. Yennefer wouldn't have recommended the man for nothing. 

"It was on my last visit to the temple," he told Regis. "Which was only a month ago, so I think we can assume it's still growing there now. Normally, I'd have left there with a finished preparation, not a bundle of dried herbs, but they had none ready and I wasn't able to stop there long enough to wait." Yennefer had been in a hurry, and she and Mother Nenneke had never exactly seen eye-to-eye. Nor had Geralt been eager to weather either's thoughts on the other. "The problem being that these are now a month old." 

"Yes, of course," Regis agreed. "I am sure the reachcluster will still prove viable at that age, but you won't get as many doses, and more care will be needed to extract the essence and ensure its quality. A magical binding agent may be necessary." 

"Interesting," Geralt tilted his head. "Our usual formula calls for one even when the herb is fresh. I've never heard of the potion being brewed without such ingredients." 

"Mm. A sensible precaution. There is a school of thought in the alchemical profession that reliance upon magic is in some way cheating—that the true mark of mastery is in producing the desired results _without_ resorting to the use of arcane ingredients. Of course, I imagine the objection to be largely professional—none of us like to be dependent upon sorcerous aid for base ingredients. But I'm sure you wouldn't have me waste time devising a wholly mundane solution on a matter of principle." 

Geralt nodded. "What kind of magical agent did you have in mind? I hope you're not going to send me out seeking harpy dreams or the heart of a golem before I tackle the zeugl." 

"The heart of a golem?" Regis sounded intrigued. "One can only imagine the _Chapter's_ reaction to a golem's heart being reduced to a mere reagent. True, as a stable source of animating power... oh, one could ask for little better, but I don't think that will be necessary." 

"You laugh," said Geralt, smiling, "but one of our formulas calls for one. Or at least lists it as a possible alternative." 

"Well, there must be a story there, one can be sure. But as for what would suffice for our purposes, hm, one of the spectral essences, perhaps..." 

With some satisfaction, Geralt fished a jar from his bag and placed it beside the herbs. "I'm impressed," he admitted, as Regis picked up the jar and held it to the light, "that's very near what our formula calls for." 

"Oh, this should do splendidly!" Regis agreed with enthusiasm. 

"Keep whatever remains," Geralt offered, "I can't afford to pay you what this job is probably worth, but..." 

"Ah," Regis interrupted, "unless the essence is a good deal more concentrated than it appears, I wouldn't want to count there being any remainder from the distillation process. With reachcluster of this age, it would be safer to process as much as possible, leaving calculations of purity to later in the preparation." 

Geralt frowned. He was used to being told by alchemists that the rare and valuable reagents he provided were _only just_ sufficient for purpose—usually after the fact, and largely regardless of the quantity he'd supplied—but he wasn't keen to assume the same motivations from Regis. 

Regis' answering look was knowing. "With luck, the result will be a few more doses of usable potion—and I would be happier to know you had them in reserve, in the unlikely event I prove to have miscalculated somewhere." 

"I see the sense in that," said Geralt, cautiously, "but I may not be able to pay you what the work is worth." 

Regis waved a hand. "Oh, please don't think of paying me. You've brought me the most interesting job I've had in months, and I can't imagine our mayor is paying you a farthing beyond the very least the job is worth. I consider it a matter of civic duty." 

Geralt frowned. "Are you sure...?" 

"Quite definitely," said Regis. "I won't hear otherwise." 

"Those other witchers who came to you before, did you do them the same favour?" 

"Well, no," Regis admitted, "but these are different circumstances. For one, neither of them referred to work so pressing or so close to home. I am sure, in your business, such matters become routine, but if you knew how many men and women had to vanish in the vicinity of the cesspool before the contract was posted at all..." 

The contract hadn't specified, but Geralt had been led to believe the casualties already numbered at least half a dozen. "I see. Still, if there's anything else I can do to repay you..." 

Regis seemed to consider. "Hm... well, if it _is_ a zeugl, it would be most interesting to get my hands on its venom glands. I realise, given the unpredictable nature of your job, it may not be possible to retrieve them intact—please do not put yourself in any undue danger on this account, but if you find yourself in the position to..." 

"I'll bring them to you," Geralt nodded. He wasn't foolish enough to imagine this was much more than an afterthought for Regis—a way to let the witcher feel he'd paid his debts—but the venom of a zeugl would be a genuine prize to any alchemist. 

"Splendid! Come back tomorrow—not before noon, mind, this isn't a job to be rushed." 

"Of course," said Geralt, then hesitated. 'Thank you' seemed both insufficient and premature. There was something about Regis that he couldn't put his finger on, but it nagged at him. Professionals like Regis didn't take to Geralt as a rule, let alone so enthusiastically, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. "Until tomorrow then." 

Regis' smile was invitingly warm, even in farewell. Geralt left with his head spinning, charmed and confused in equal measure.


	2. Chapter 2

The bathwater had yet to lose its heat when Regis completed his examination of the gash on Geralt's shoulder. "Well, you were right—it's not as bad as it looks at first glance, though it will heal faster with a stitch or two holding it together. I can do that for you now, if you're happy to hold still for me."

"Why not?" Geralt replied, settling back against the rim of the tub, letting his eyes drift closed. It was easier _not_ to think about how he'd received that injury—to tell himself this was just a routine part of the job—if he didn't have to meet Regis' gaze. If there was a flush to his cheeks, it was only the heat of the water. 

The battle with the zeugl—for it had, of course, been a zeugl—was every bit as gruesomely unpleasant as he'd anticipated. Bad enough, having to waste so much concentration just to keep his footing while up to his knees in the cesspool, but the monster had been well-fed, and clever enough to keep its distance to boot. The result had been a long and taxing battle of attrition. 

Among the clods of muck the monster had hurled at Geralt was part of a skull so small that for a second he hadn't even recognised it as human. That had been the moment he'd seen red, thrown himself at the beast with renewed fury—and still, when it had come time to land the killing blow, he'd hesitated. A zeugl's venom glands were very near its throat, engorged when hunting; it would have been easy to puncture them with a careless strike. The wound on his shoulder, torn through the seam of his armour by the point of a spiked tentacle,had been his reward. And so, in effort to impress Regis, he'd done precisely what Regis had asked him _not_ to do: put himself in needless danger for the sake of a trophy. A beginner's mistake. 

But even once the battle was over, as his shoulder throbbed and Geralt wanted nothing more than to be as far from all that muck as possible, he'd waded back in, knife in hand, and dug into the stinking flesh of the zeugl to find the prize he'd promised the alchemist. Like _hell_ was he going to have taken that stupid blow for nothing. 

No amount of well water could flush the stink from his body and make him feel clean again, no matter how much he sluiced over himself. He needed the kind of scrub that would be impossible in public. But even then, he'd found himself going back not to the inn, where Yennefer and their warm bed awaited, but halfway across town to Regis' shop. Geralt knew once he collapsed that night he'd not be up again until morning, and the thought of leaving those hard-won venom glands to putrefy in their jar overnight was more than he could bear. But it was a damp, unpleasant trek, feeling with each squelching step as if even the ravens lining the gutters above were laughing at him—all the while promising himself that in future he would work only with alchemists he despised, and thus would feel no foolish need to impress. 

Whatever he looked like on arrival—let alone smelled like—Regis had welcomed him with everything short of open arms. On learning the Geralt was injured, he insisted upon looking at it there and then; never mind the smell, he was, by lucky coincidence, already heating water for a bath. He'd even found a loose robe that Geralt might wear, to save having to squeeze himself back into damp leather to walk home ("Rather worn, and you may find it a bit tight around the shoulders, but it should see you home safe and dry—come back tomorrow for your armour, once it's had a chance to dry properly.") 

It would have taken a stronger man than Geralt to turn all that down. Even if it did mean stripping himself naked in the home of a near-stranger—one he _liked_ , certainly, but was still confused by. Instincts enhanced by his mutations, trained in combat with countless species of monsters (and as many species of human) still could not make up their minds what to make of Regis—and that, in and of itself, was a concern. 

Geralt scrubbed himself off as best he could and slipped into the bath with pleasure nonetheless. His instincts could make up their minds in their own damned time. 

By the time Regis had finished with his stitches, little else was keeping Geralt awake. The alchemist seemed apologetic as he roused Geralt from his reverie. 

"Would you permit me to look over the rest of you before I put everything away? This may be the only injury you were conscious of, but given the nature of your opponent, I would be happier for knowing nothing has been overlooked." 

Geralt looked at him sideways. "Very well," he agreed, and rose—albeit reluctantly—from the warm water of the tub, stepping over the side to the floor of Regis' back room, so that nothing would obscure his view. 

Regis took his time moving around Geralt, looking him up and down, his gaze and distance carefully professional—though not quite careful enough, if one knew what to look for. 

"Satisfied?" Geralt asked him, presently. 

"Yes, yes, you are clearly whole and uninjured," Regis agreed. 

Smiling faintly to himself, Geralt climbed back into the tub. "I'm surprised you don't have more witcher customers," he offered. "Alchemy, surgery, and a warm bath in one place. Any other talents I should know about?" 

Regis smiled back at him. "None you'd find immediately relevant. Unless you'd like a shave and a haircut while you're here." 

Ah, the grand tradition of the barber-surgeon. "Knock yourself out," Geralt grinned. He was mostly joking, but when Regis shortly reappeared bearing a comb and a razor, the witcher found himself not at all inclined to object. The water was cooling, but still comfortable. He'd have to make his way back to the inn eventually—he couldn't very well leave Yennefer wondering what had become of him after the fight—but that could wait a little longer. 

Perhaps there ought to have been more hesitation in inviting this man, about whom he still had his reservations, to press a razor to his throat. But as this visit wore on, Geralt had put a name to at least some part of what had nagged at him about his new friend's manner: Regis was _flirting_ withhim, and none too subtly at that. Though the man was hardly his type, even in men, Geralt was surprised how much he found himself enjoying it—even flirting back. It wasn't as though he'd stepped out of that tub, putting all his wet skin on display in the candlelight, without knowing exactly what he was doing. 

Perhaps, he mused, Yennefer was in some way to blame—Geralt hadn't been with another man in all the months since they'd reunited. But then, it wasn't as if it was something he'd been conscious of missing, or normally indulged in very often. Perhaps flirting was simply _easier_ , knowing nothing would come of it—knowing Regis would enjoy the excuse to put his hands on Geralt again (and for wholly unscientific reasons), even if Geralt would ultimately have to let him down. Just another way for the witcher to express his thanks, uncharacteristic as the impulse might be. 

That wasn't to say the mystery of Regis was resolved to Geralt's satisfaction, however. What continued to nag at him, even now, was that Regis _knew_ Yennefer—and presumably must have known the nature of _Geralt's_ relationship to Yennefer—and nothing else in the man's countenance suggested he was brave or foolish enough to risk Yennefer's inevitable wrath, should she learn just how friendly he'd gotten with her pet witcher. So what _did_ Regis think he was doing? Where did he expect this to go? There were certainly those in the world who liked to flirt even without the least expectation of reciprocation, but it seemed to Geralt that he and Regis lacked any sort of basis upon which to form those sort of assumptions. He couldn't shake the feeling, as Regis leaned over the tub to scrape away another line of stubble, that were Geralt to reach for him now and bring their lips together, he'd encounter no resistance at all. 

"How long have you known Yennefer?" he asked eventually, while Regis paused to wipe off his razor. 

"How long?" echoed Regis. "I suppose that would depend how you count it. We first met... oh, it must be at least two decades ago, but I can't say we've ever spent more than a week or two at a time in one another's presence, and then it might be a year or more before I have that pleasure again. She has her home in Vengerberg, of course, and finds the excuse to visit Dillingen only occasionally." 

None of this much surprised Geralt, though it brought him no closer to answering his real question, which would have been, _do you have any idea how jealous she can be? What she might do, if she caught us flirting?_ If anything, only the strange note of fondness in Regis' voice gave him pause—if he was _fond_ of Yennefer, it raised still more questions about what he thought he was doing. 

"How did you meet?" Geralt asked instead. 

"A somewhat complicated story," said Regis, smiling, "which I would be only too happy to share, were I more confident you weren't going to drift off in the middle of it." 

"I'm not that sleepy," Geralt protested. 

Regis made one final swipe with his razor, and then, apparently satisfied with his work, withdrew it. "No?" 

"No," echoed Geralt, and thought, oh _fuck_ it, and reached for him. 

The kiss was slow and comfortable, and Geralt was still trying to make up his mind what Regis tasted of when he realised it had already gone on longer than he'd meant it to. Reluctantly, he pulled away. 

" _My_ ," said Regis softly, eyes shining with an affection Geralt couldn't possibly have earned, "you're very forward." 

Geralt's hand still rested on Regis' cheek, the tips of his fingers on the soft skin behind his jaw. He found himself loath to remove it. "Just testing a theory." 

"And what would that be?" 

"That you wanted me to do that." It was a shame, Geralt thought, that he'd have to let Regis down now. He'd already taken this further than he should have. 

"I did," Regis agreed. "Do you have any other theories about what I might like? Please do feel free to test them." 

Somehow, Geralt found himself kissing Regis again—longer and deeper this time, and it was only when he felt Regis falter ever-so-slightly under a too-eager thrust of his tongue that Geralt roused himself to break away. 

"Regis... look," he began, tasting blood, his tongue suddenly raw, unable to meet Regis' eyes, "I shouldn't lead you on. You know I'm not uninterested, and you've been very kind. But... you know I'm with Yennefer. She wouldn't share me, and I wouldn't ask her to." 

There's a fondness in Regis' smile when Geralt looks up that is so out of place it can only mean he's been misunderstood. "You don't think," said the alchemist, "in the case of you and I, she couldn't be convinced to make an exception? After all..." 

But Geralt didn't immediately catch what he said next, because under the taste of blood where he'd nicked his tongue on Regis' teeth, something he'd half-noticed _without_ noticing was coming together in his head. Something that went straight to the same instincts trained by years on the path to keep him alive—vital enough to bypass even those parts of his brain seriously engaged with the way Regis smelled and the incomprehensible things he was saying. 

This close to him, his thumb still resting at the corner of Regis' lips; it was the work of a moment to lift the man's upper lip so that Geralt could confirm with his eyes what he was still only half-convinced he'd felt... 

Geralt very nearly overturned the tub in his rush to escape. He was still naked and there was nowhere to _go_ in this cramped room that wasn't through Regis, but he'd at least had the sense to leave his swords in reach. Only with his scabbards in his grasp, his right hand already on the hilt of his silver blade, was Geralt finally game to look back the way he'd come. 

Regis hadn't moved, except to raise a self-conscious hand to his mouth and appropriate a sheepish expression. He was also now rather wet, having been liberally splashed by the bathwater during Geralt's escape. 

" _Ah_..." he said. "I... I'm sorry Geralt, I had supposed that Yennefer had made you aware..." 

"That you're a _vampire_?" Already, Geralt's mind was racing through the possible species—not much liking the paucity of options able to pass nearly so well as Regis had up until a moment ago. Damnit, how many reflective surfaces _were_ there in the cottage, between all Regis' metal and glassware and the damned _water in the tub_ even, and he hadn't _noticed_? 

The smile Regis gave him was notably weak, even for a man doing his best not to reveal any fangs. "I don't begrudge you your reaction, Geralt—given your profession, I realise the position I've put you in. I can only promise you as best I am able that I present no threat to you, nor any other living man or woman. If you cannot accept my word, I can only ask that you accept that of Yennefer, who..." 

At Yennefer's name, something came loose in Geralt's recent memory—something Regis had been saying while Geralt was having his last horrifying epiphany. "Wait... what you said before..." 

"Before...?" Regis blinked at him, uncomprehending. 

"About Yennefer," Geralt ground out, "and _you_." 

Hesitating only a little, Regis told him.


	3. Chapter 3

It was fortunate for Geralt that Regis had had the foresight to fetch the loose robe he'd promised and leave it preemptively by the bath, for Geralt was in no state to dress himself in anything more complicated, wet clothes or otherwise. He left Regis' house wearing nothing but the robe and the harness that secured his swords to his back, the cobbles hard and uneven under the bare soles of his feet. He ran, until running began to feel ridiculous, and then he walked, stone-faced and determined—a sight to draw the eye of every person around to see him, then send their eyes skittering nervously away again once they caught the expression on his face. (One small boy jeered, and threw something at him that crunched against his back and bounced off. Geralt ignored him utterly. The boy didn't risk a second shot.)

By the time he reached the inn, his feet were on achingly intimate terms with each and every yard of road separating Yennefer's lodgings from that of the alchemist. _Go ahead, Yen_ , he thought as he climbed the stairs, _Read my mind. Save me the trouble of having to confront you._

She was at her table when he burst in, having just finished removing her makeup. As she raised her eyebrows at his appearance, however, Geralt realised that he was, unfortunately, going to have to be the one to begin this conversation. 

" _Regis,_ " was all he managed. 

Something he couldn't immediately name rushed across Yennefer's features. Then she sighed. "Really, Geralt? Very well, let's have this out—which aspect of his person do you object to? His nature, or the nature of our-" 

"That you're _sleeping_ ," said Geralt, "with a _vampire_." 

"And?" was her unapologetic retort. "Is it the mere fact that there's someone else that offends you so, or would you have been quite happy to meet the other man were he some less exotic being?" 

Something about this rather took the wind from his sails. He'd forgotten, in his mad march to get here, just how _bad_ he was at arguing with Yennefer. Even staying properly angry with her was a job. He sagged and looked away, his next question coming out quieter, "Were you ever planning on telling me?" 

"Why wouldn't I," she scoffed, "when you're taking it so well? Come on, Geralt—you make it a matter of principle not to willingly slay any creature with whom you can conduct a civil conversation.. You must see Regis is no different." 

"He's a _vampire_. They-" 

"A _higher_ vampire, in point of fact." 

"A _higher_ vampire?" He'd suspected, of course, but he'd still somehow _hoped_ \- "You're..." 

"You don't imagine I'd sleep with a _lower_ one, do you? And it's an entirely different matter. You know as well as I do that alone of the vampiric species, higher vampires do not require blood to survive, but merely enjoy it as a delicacy. Many abstain except on ceremonial occasions, or altogether, as Regis does. No, I cannot easily prove that to you, yet it is true—accept that, having known the man for many years, I know of what I speak." 

Geralt blanched. "You can't possibly trust that he-" 

"I can and I _do_ ," Yennefer snapped, her eyes flashing with anger as she rose to her feet. "I have _seen_ what becomes of that gentle man when induced against his will into a state of primal bloodlust. Believe me, he enjoyed the experience no more than I did. No, he did not hurt me, so do not ask; I do not mean to share that story now—simply understand that the thought of what he might have done in that state repulsed him every bit as much as it repulses you!" Still sneering, she sat back down, while Geralt cast helplessly for anything to say to this—this glimpse into a history he knew nothing about. "Though even if you cannot find it in yourself to trust him," she went on, "what do you imagine you could do about it? You could scarcely _harm_ him, even if you tried." For a long moment, she held his gaze while Geralt tried to come up with an answer—but this time, it was she who looked away first. 

"Yen..." he began, carefully. 

"You do not get to call me _Yen_ when we're having an argument." 

"Yennefer," he corrected himself, though the name felt strange in his mouth, "His kind—they can bewitch the mind." 

"Do you suppose he bewitched mine? Don't be a fool, Geralt, you don't imagine a sorceress is to be so easily ensnared. Save, I suppose, by a careless wish upon a djinn..." 

That made him flinch. "You know that's not why I..." 

"No, it's not," she agreed, more gently than she might have done. "But I fear, for the moment, we have other things to argue about, do we not?" 

Geralt sighed, defeated. "Alright, Yen. Say I believe you—that he's harmless. Tell me that you haven't been to bed with him since we came here, and I'll believe that too." 

Yennefer was mollified not at all. "Don't you try to entrap me, Geralt, and I will not lie to you. Yes, I've been to bed with him. What of it? You are a lesser man than I thought if you suppose that _your_ cock is the only one that's ever brought me pleasure." 

It was a cruel blow, and it landed. Again, Geralt flinched. "That's not the same thing at all, Yen, and you know it." 

"Then let me explain to you, in small words, the nature of my relationship with Regis," said Yennefer. "I have known the man since a time when _you_ could scarcely have fit the boots you wear today..." briefly, she frowned at him, "...were you wearing any. I am very fond of him, but the time I spend with him amounts to perhaps a few weeks of every year, in no particular schedule, and the arrangement suits us both. So yes, I had slept with Regis long before I ever laid eyes on _you_ , Geralt. I abstained from his company for the entire year you spent with me in Vengerberg, but after _you_ left _me_ , you may be assured I found time to visit this town again. Should I wake up a day or even a year from now to find naught but another of your goodbye letters to explain your absence, you may _also_ be assured I would eventually find the time to visit him then. And much the same would be true should your dangerous profession get the best of you at last: yes, I would mourn you, but you cannot expect me to mourn forever. So why should it matter that I sleep with him now, when we find ourselves with the opportunity to do so?" 

It was all painfully rational, and just as painfully unfair. "I thought..." 

"Then you thought _wrong_ ," she snapped. "Geralt, if you wish me to turn down a pleasure such as Regis, there is something I must hear from you. A conversation you have avoided—that perhaps neither of us are prepared to have. Are you ready for it now? No, of course not." 

The worst of it was that she wasn't wrong; Geralt had no answer for her. "Am I the dalliance, then?" he asked, letting the bitterness overcome him. "Something temporary, to be cast aside when it's worn out, or you've grown tired of it?" 

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed, with scarcely less venom. "It doesn't suit you. You know that isn't the case." 

_Do I?_ he wondered, though it was hardly worth voicing. "Would you have been so understanding," he asked instead, "if I had been the one who cheated...?" 

"Have you anyone in your life like Regis? No, I thought not." 

"That isn't fair." 

"No, it is not," she agreed. "And I did not expect him to reveal it to you, at least not under such circumstances. So there you have it; I see little more to be said. Either you can accept his place in my life, or you cannot." 

An interesting statement, Geralt noted, in the small part of his brain which remained detached enough to notice such things. No indication of what it would mean if he 'could not'. Would it be _him_ she left, or Regis? Did he even want to know? 

For the first time, Geralt really considered it. _If all she says is true—if Regis is harmless, and so respectful—_ could _I share her?_ He was surprised to find that his first impulse was to suppose he _could_. If there was no risk of losing her to Regis—if the _alternative_ might be to lose her completely—he could imagine enduring far worse. It was hardly as though he could begrudge Yennefer her attraction to the man, given, well... 

He opened his mouth to say as much, only to hesitate, appalled at the thought of giving in so easily. _He_ was the wounded party here, wasn't he? Why was he the one making concessions? No closer to a decision, he looked up at her, and saw something else entirely. 

"Yen..." he began, softly, "are you... crying?" 

"Of course not," she snapped, and turned away. 

In that moment, Geralt realised he wanted nothing more than to go to her and comfort her—to assure her that all would be well, that she could have all the vampires in the world if it would only make her happy. But did she want that—from him of all people, now of all moments—or would she simply push him away? 

Very likely, she'd prefer to see as little of him as possible, at least for a while. 

He closed the door behind him as he left. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is ♥


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